The Killer's Manuscript

The first sentence of Alex Chen’s debut novel was perfect—sharp as a scalpel, sweet as stolen fruit—and he whispered it aloud for the hundredth time, fingers drumming on the patrol-car steering wheel.

Safehaven Cove dozed around him: gulls wheeling over the bandstand, bakery smoke curling like lazy handwriting.

He pictured the dust-jacket photo, the New York Times paragraph that would someday begin with that very line, and didn’t notice the shadow falling across the windshield until two knuckles rammed between his shoulder blades.

The slap cracked through daydream and bone alike.

Alex’s skull bounced off the head-rest; the notebook on his lap somersaulted to the floor-mat.

Detective Will Sterling glared down, crow’s-feet spreading like fractures in old ice.

“While you’re busy writing the next War and Peace,” Will growled, “maybe keep an eye on the radio. Channel three’s been screaming your call-sign for five minutes.”

He followed the reprimand with a half-playful swat to the back of Alex’s head, the ritual cuff every rookie learned to expect—and fear.

Alex swallowed the manuscript panic.

If Will ever read the first chapter, he’d confiscate it for evidence: the protagonist was a cynical detective who looked exactly like Will, only taller and better at poker.

Graduating top of his Police Academy class had landed Alex here, where the weekly crime log read more like a grocery list: lost terrier, gazebo graffiti, goat on the loose.

He bent to retrieve the notebook, but Will was already walking toward the station entrance, coat flapping like a warning flag.

Inside, the ceiling fan chopped the morning into slow rectangles of light.

The desk phone rang—one shrill note, then silence, then again, louder.

Will lifted the receiver, listened, and the granite mask he wore for a face slipped a full inch.

“Oceanview Towers, twelfth floor,” he said, voice flat. “Possible 10-54. Let’s roll.”

Alex’s pulse sprinted.

A 10-54 meant body.

In Safehaven Cove, bodies happened in hospice beds, not waterfront condos.

The squad car carved through streets so familiar the asphalt felt like family.

They passed the ice-cream stand shuttered since Labor Day, the marina where masts clicked like wind chimes, the bench where old men argued about fish they almost caught.

Oceanview Towers rose at the far end of Harbor Drive—twelve stories of tinted glass, the town’s lone attempt at skyline.

A uniformed guard waited under the porte-cochère, thumbs hooked in a belt that looked newly issued.

Will flashed tin.

“Talk.”

“Neighbor jogged by at oh-six-hundred, door cracked open,” the guard said. “Called down to me. That’s Mr. Kennedy on the lobby bench—retiree from One-B, couldn’t sleep, thought he’d sit here till the sirens stopped.”

Alex nodded at the old man, who clutched a paper bag of croissants as if they might be evidence.

Elevator doors sighed open on twelve.

Hallway carpet swallowed their footsteps; the air smelled of salt and fresh paint.

Unit 1208’s door stood ajar, a sliver of black beyond.

Will pushed it wide—and the copper stink of blood rolled out like fog.

Alex braced for a slaughterhouse, but the living-room gleamed: white leather sofa, glass tables reflecting daylight, throw pillows aligned like soldiers.

Not a drop on the marble.

A CSI clicked photos, flash strobing off chrome.

Dr. Carla Mendoza knelt beside the hallway arch, ponytail brushing the floor.

She made a small, puzzled sound—half laugh, half hiccup.

Cops froze; when the senior ME hesitates, death has detoured from the map.

Will stepped past her and saw the bedroom.

Snow-white duvet, hospital corners.

The victim lay atop it, arms folded, skin the color of old candle wax.

No blood trail, no spatter—only the impossible pallor.

Carla lifted a decorative object from the nightstand: two bats, wings spread and pinned with ornate iron nails, frost still glittering in their fur.

“Frozen solid,” she murmured. “Killer wanted them stiff for staging. Time of death, roughly eight hours ago.”

She tilted the corpse’s chin.

“Pair of micro-punctures right here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our guy watched too many late-night movies.”

Will’s snort echoed off tile.

“Cute. Alex, bag the bats and canvas the building—quietly. I don’t want tomorrow’s headline asking whether Safehaven invited Dracula to brunch.”

Alex snapped latex over sweaty palms.

Notebook open, he scraped the winged evidence into paper, trying not to breathe the freezer smell.

Cop-lore whispered: half the time, the person who finds the body is the one who made it.

He glanced at Mr. Kennedy downstairs, still guarding his croissants, and wondered what secrets the old man carried in that paper bag.

Alex stepped between Kennedy and the stairwell, notebook already open.

“Name and occupation, sir?”

Kennedy’s shoulders jerked as if someone had yanked an invisible wire threaded through his spine.

“K-Kennedy. Retired postman.”

Will drifted from the corridor, arms folded so tight the creases in his jacket looked pressed with a hot iron.

“You two seem… closer than neighborly?”

Color drained from Kennedy’s sun-leathered face like water from a cracked sink.

“No—no, Detective, I swear…”

Alex’s pen scratched, the only sound besides the hum of the failing fluorescent overhead.

Kennedy swallowed twice before the words crawled out.

“I feed the strays behind the dumpster. The victim… she sometimes brought tuna ends. That’s it.”

“Vampire?” Alex blurted, pulse hammering against his collar. He had seen this exact tableau—white sheet, splayed limbs, two punctures angled like quotation marks on flesh—three years ago in a blood-soaked Brooklyn loft everyone still pretended to forget.

A heavy hand smacked the back of his skull—Will’s palm thick with callus and authority.

“Focus, rookie.”

Alex’s ears rang. He fumbled inside his jacket, yanking out a battered paperback: *Crimson Nights_New1* by DANICA SHADE. The cover bats, wings inked into a halo of night, seemed to twitch under the corridor light.

“Look—same bats, same white sheets, same bite.”

Will’s jaw tightened until the scar on his chin paled.

“You’re telling me a novel predicted my crime scene?”

“Down to the angle of the body and the antique nails_New5. Either the killer’s a fan… or we’re looking at a script.”

Will exhaled through his teeth.

“Which means more bodies if we don’t stop him. Track down the author—now.”

––––––––––

Safehaven Community College_New4 sat on reclaimed marshland thirty minutes south of the city, all glass boxes and wind-bent reeds. Alex paced the lobby’s polished concrete while Will badged the receptionist.

They didn’t wait long. A girl strode in, hoodie strings chewed to fringe, faculty advisor shadowing her like a worried greyhound. MARCUS BELL, thirty-ish, average in every way except the protective vibe radiating from him in almost visible waves.

Olivia Reed_New5—campus card dangling from her neck beneath the printed name DANICA SHADE—lifted an eyebrow.

“You guys think I’m a vampire_New8, or just the next best thing?”

Will ignored the sarcasm.

“Your book matches a murder down to the hardware. Explain.”

She shrugged, the motion loose, as if bones were optional.

“I wrote it. And yeah, the scene is real—because it happened to me.”

Alex’s pen snapped, plastic shards pinching his finger.

“What do you mean ‘happened’?”

Marcus stepped between them, palms raised.

“Easy, Officer.”

Olivia’s voice stayed flat, a calm that felt practiced in front of bathroom mirrors at 3 a.m.

“I dream it, I write it. Two weeks later it happens. Call it a curse, call it coincidence—your choice.”

Will leaned in, close enough that she could probably taste coffee and impatience on his breath.

“Dreams don’t freeze bats, Miss Reed. Who else knew your plot?”

Olivia hesitated, eyes skating to Marcus then back.

“Only my pet-shop source—old guy who sells exotic feeders. He swore bats make great promo props.”

Alex flipped his notebook despite the broken pen, scribbling with the ink-stained splinter.

“Name and address?”

“Little Beasties_New4, Pier 19, Bayview Harbor. Calls himself Crazy Carl_New7.”

Will straightened, already dialing.

“Get uniforms to pick him up. And you—” He pointed at Olivia. “—you’re riding with us. Try anything cute and I’ll cuff your imagination.”

Marcus bristled.

“She’s a minor witness, not a suspect. I’m coming too.”

Alex caught the way Olivia’s fingers worried the hem of her sleeve, tiny tugs like someone trying to close a wound that kept reopening.

Dreams or not, he thought, she’s terrified of tomorrow.

Outside, gulls screamed over the parking lot, white wings against a white sky, and for a moment the world felt inverted—everything up in the air, nothing nailed down except the certainty that the next chapter was already written, waiting for them to turn the page.

“Name?” Olivia asked the clerk at the precinct’s front desk.

“Everyone calls him Crazy Carl. Runs Little Beasties on Maple & Third.” The officer snapped the folder shut as if the conversation itself smelled bad.

Interview over, Olivia pivoted toward the glass doors. Fluorescent light skated across her dark ponytail, flicking shadows across the wall like a metronome. Alex jogged after her, boots squeaking on waxed linoleum.

“Olivia—wait!”

Detective Will Sterling hooked two fingers under Alex’s collar and yanked. The younger officer staggered backward, sneaker rubber chirping.

“We’re cops, not groupies,” Will growled. “Keep it professional.”

Night shift began with the city exhaling heat it had held all day. The squad car crawled along Maple, tires hissing on asphalt still soft from the sun. Neon signs fizzed; bars leaked laughter. When they reached Third, Little Beasties sat dark, aluminum gate halfway down, CLOSED sign swinging like a hanged man in the breeze.

Alex killed the engine. Quiet flooded in—no crickets, no sirens, only the soft tick of cooling metal. He stepped out, scanned the block, and flagged a woman dragging a wheeled suitcase.

“When did the owner leave?”

She shrugged, earbuds glowing blue. “Didn’t open today—gates down since dawn.”

Alex turned back. “Guess we’re unlucky.”

Olivia was already thumbing her phone. “Carl lives in the back. No way he’d miss rent.” She pressed dial and lifted the handset toward the gate. Inside, an old rotary phone rang—clang-clang, clang-clang—lonely, unanswered.

Will’s nostrils flared first. Sweet, metallic, drifting like cheap perfume under the roll-down gate. He reached for the bolt cutters in the trunk without asking permission.

Thirty seconds later the lock sighed apart. Gate screeched up. Warm, cedar-shaving air rolled out, carrying something darker beneath—copper bright as a new penny.

Rows of empty cages labeled FEEDER BATS glinted under emergency flashlights. Freezers hummed lullabies to things that would never wake. Olivia’s beam found a doorway curtained by plastic strips. Beyond lay a single mattress on the floor, sheet blinding white.

Carl lay on top, arms folded like a knight on a tomb. Two pinpoint holes marred the skin just left of his Adam’s apple. No blood on the sheets; white sheets, of course.

Olivia crouched, fingers hovering an inch above his cheek. “He’s still warm.”

Alex’s skin prickled; every shadow became a hiding place. He cleared the bathroom, the utility closet, the crawlspace behind freezers—sweat stinging his eyes, pulse hammering triple time. Nobody.

Will keyed his shoulder mic. “Need CSU and a bus at Little Beasties, Maple and Third. Possible homicide, victim still warm.” Static answered; then dispatch echoed confirmation.

While Will sealed the entrance, Olivia drifted the aisles, flashlight painting arcs across bags of mealworms and freeze-dried crickets. She whispered, half to herself, “Chapter Two ends here… which means Chapter Three is already in motion.”

Alex watched her profile, the calm that wasn’t calm at all, and felt the night tilt beneath his feet.

The espresso machine hissed like a warning when the hand struck.

Alex Chen’s chest hit the marble café table, breath exploding outward in a startled cough. His laptop skated across the wood, corner teetering over the drop to the terrazzo floor.

Detective Will Sterling_New2’s reflection slid across the black screen a heartbeat before the lid snapped shut.

“Off-duty means off-duty, rookie.” Will’s voice was gravel rubbed on glass. “Bayview Harbor didn’t issue you a badge so you could script bloodbaths for pocket change.”

Alex swallowed the sour backwash of decaf and panic. If Will read a single line of *Crimson Nights_New1*, the captain’s shredder would eat the manuscript before sunset. Since graduation from the Police Academy_New1, every moon-lit hour had been smuggled into chapters, but the precinct’s “no outside gigs” clause hung over him like a blade.

He forced a grin that felt plastic. “Just journaling, Sarge. Thought the town might inspire me.”

Will’s crow’s-feet deepened into trenches. “Inspiration? We haven’t had a homicide since the mayor’s cat got stuck in a tree. You’re writing ghosts into paradise.”

The detective’s gaze swept the room—past the barista twisting latte art, past the retiree dozing over *Bayview Herald_New5*—then landed on the closed laptop like he considered prying it open.

Alex slid the computer into his messenger bag, zipper snarling. “Won’t happen again.”

Will tapped the table twice, a silent promise, and walked out into the salt-white morning.

Alex exhaled slowly, tasting copper where he’d bitten his tongue. Zero murders, zero muggings, zero stories. The blank page waited, as pristine—and as suffocating—as the snow-white sheets he hadn’t slept under in weeks.

The kitchen wall-phone blasted again, shrill enough to rattle the coffee mugs.

Will Sterling snatched the receiver, shoulder pinning it while his eyes stayed on Alex Chen.

“Tenth Precinct, Sterling,” he muttered.

Whatever came through the earpiece turned his cheeks the color of old ash; the small muscle at the corner of his left eye twitched once, then froze.

“Copy,” he said. “On scene in eight.”

He set the handset down like it was breakable, exhaled through his nose, and flicked a glance at Alex.

“Congratulations—your request for overtime just got approved.”

Alex’s stomach answered with a sour flip. “Where?”

“Marina Point condos_New6, twelfth floor. Uniform thinks we’ve got a fresh one.”

Will was already moving, keys jangling.

The ride across Bayview Harbor took six minutes, siren silent but lights strobing red off the black water.

They parked beside a palm whose fronds clicked in the night breeze.

A young patrol officer waited at the elevator cage, thumbs hooked in his vest.

Will lifted his badge. “Talk to me.”

“Neighbor out for a run,” the rookie said, voice tight. “Door cracked open, lights off. He peeks in, sees the living room. Whole place draped in white sheets—couches, TV, even the fish tank. Looks like someone tried to ghost-proof a furniture store. Then he spots the shape under the biggest sheet. Human size. That’s when he called us.”

Alex swallowed the taste of copper. “We’re up,” Will said, stepping into the elevator.

The doors sighed shut, sealing them with the smell of metal and salt.

The penthouse door sighed open like a cracked ribcage, releasing a metallic breath that slapped Alex Chen across the face. He expected screaming red chaos; instead, a sterile glacier greeted him—marble floors vacuum-sealed in plastic, furniture cocooned in milky film, air refrigerated to morgue obedience. Camera flashes flickered from the far bedroom, brief white lightning that revealed nothing and everything.

Detective Will Sterling_New2 followed the strobes. Inside, Dr. Sophia Reed_New9 knelt at the foot of a king-size altar of sheets so white they hurt to look at. She pinched the linen edge, lifted, then stopped mid-breath, a soft puzzled grunt leaking out. Anything that could stall Reed was a confession the world had tilted.

Will stepped closer. The victim lay supine, arms folded in perfect crusader symmetry, skin bleached parchment but unbroken. No red on the walls, no red on the floor, no red on the body—just a drained mannequin wearing a stranger’s face.

Reed lifted a withered thing with tweezers: a desiccated bat, mummy-tight, eyes shriveled into raisins. “These feeders have been dead for days,” she murmured. “Our host, though, checked out within the last six hours. No wounds, no lividity, yet every ounce of blood has simply… left the building.”